My Name Is
by thisaccountisdeadd
Summary: "My name is Lany Elizabeth Taylor, and I need to find the Winchesters. They can help." OR: In which a girl wakes up with no memories and a single piece of paper, telling her to find the Winchesters.


She had woken up in hotel, she knew that much. How she had gotten there was an entirely different story. It was definitely coupled with the 'what the hell is my name' problem to solve. Solving that problem was easy for most people. Why couldn't she remember her name? Maybe a night of drinking? No, and if there was, she doubted she would remember it, considering most of her life was just . . . blank.

Nothing. She didn't know if she had a family, she didn't know where she was, and the only reason she had any semblance of knowing what country she was from was because she was thinking in English.

"What the hell. . . "

So she was American. Northern? Sounded like a New York accent.

Her one true question was why she knew everything she should, except anything concerning her personal life. She could tell you that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, but not her own name.

She groaned and tried to sit up. Not particularly a good idea, considering the sharp pain in her side when it was attempted, but one she pursued nonetheless. Once up, she lifted up her shirt to see a bandage wound around her abdomen with just the hint of blood seeping through on the side that had hurt her on her way up. It was well bandaged, the knowledge of which led her to asking herself what she had done for a living. Was she a nurse? Was that possible, at her age? What age was she?

On the bed opposite sat duffle bag. Further inspection - and a lot of pain and swearing - revealed a few outfits, a pair of working boots similar to the ones she was wearing when she woke up, a pistol, car keys, and a butt ton of money.

So at least she knew she had essentials.

There was a bathroom in the corner, and a nightstand between the two beds that held a single piece of paper with a messy scrawl across it. She picked it up — and almost dropped it.

"My name is Lany Elizabeth Taylor, and I need to find the Winchesters. They can help," she read aloud. Was this hers? Was she Lany Elizabeth Taylor? How would she prove it?

There was a pen and paper similar to the one in her hand. She tried out writing 'Lany Elizabeth Taylor,' and was surprised when the handwriting was the same. She had honestly not expected to be her.

Lany Elizabeth Taylor . . .

What a pretentious name. she needed something that suited her right now. Something like. . . Liz Taylor. Yeah, that would do.

'The Winchesters.' Who were the Winchesters? If this was meant to help her, it wasn't doing its job. No first names, no count of how many Winchesters she was looking for, nothing.

Liz sighed and made her way to the bathroom. Might as well freshen up and get going. She stopped at the mirror and checked herself out.

Hmm . . . she didn't actually look half bad. Round face, but not too round, soft and full lips, and she had heterochromia— one green eye, one blue eye. Perfect match for the dirty blonde hair surrounding her face.

Her clothes were very. . . southern, to say the least. Skinny jeans, work boots, an oversized flannel, and — was that a knife? How had she not noticed it? This led her to another thing - what else had she missed? She hadn't been exactly observant, something she sensed was not the usual.

She took a deep breath. Okay, so time to be observant.

There was a strange feeling on her ankle when she shifted her weight and there was a pocket she hadn't checked on the duffel bag. She took off her shoe to find a flip phone with only one contact - John. It held no information, and the contact only said "John - for emergencies." While Liz would count this as an emergency, she wasn't sure who to trust, besides the Winchesters, whom she had supposedly recommended to herself. She wasn't even sure of that, to be be honest.

The duffle bag pocket held another hotel note, this one with a list on it, still in her handwriting.

John Winchester

Sam Winchester

Dean Winchester

Bobby Singer

That's it. Were these the Winchesters she was supposed to be looking for? Possibly, but something told her that it wouldn't be easy. Could the John on the list be the John in the phone? She should wait to find out.

Liz had the feeling she should have left the hotel by now. She grabbed the duffle bag and stuffed the phone into her back pocket, looking around for the key and finding it sitting atop a dresser she hadn't really noticed.

From there she went to the front of the hotel, where the person in the front checked her out and nicely pointed to the car she arrived in. Although to call it a car would be inaccurate — it was a rusty old pickup truck.

"Cool," Liz whispered to herself. Inside there was a wallet containing several different IDs, all with a different name on them - apparently she was Makayla Thomas from the FBI, Lindsay Manchester for NCIS, Brianna Hemingway for Interpol, among a few others.

She also had a driver's license under her actual name - her full name was Dylaina Elizabeth Manchester - an even more pretentious name - she was 5' 2", and she was 22. There were also a couple credit cards, all under different names, and a picture of her and some man she didn't recognize. Her father maybe?

Whatever. All she needs to do right now is drive and find those Winchesters.

 **(A/N: my first multi-chapter fanfic! Woo! I will try to update, I really will. However, I suck at keeping schedules, so we'll see. The fic will probably be updated on Wattpad first, under the username MaybeIloveu, so you should probably check there for updates. Please tell me what you think in the reviews!)**


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